


Is It The Chair That's Hard Or Are You Just Happy To Sit On Me?

by nischi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Chairs, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, PWP, accidental creepy goldilocks theme, handjobs, sorry about that one it kinda got away from me, though i guess that should be singular
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nischi/pseuds/nischi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go shopping for a new armchair, kind of</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is It The Chair That's Hard Or Are You Just Happy To Sit On Me?

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going or not?” His voice sounded ever frustrated by the constant lack of communication. “No? Not even a hint? A name, a reason; anything? Nothing??”

John’s pace sped up amidst the throng of busy shoppers, making sure as to not lose his companion. It would be fine if he knew where he was going, but Sherlock didn’t always deem it necessary to exchange that vital piece of information.

Sherlock disappeared off into a side street, and John broke into a slow jog, following shortly behind. For a man who could go days without leaving the couch, Sherlock was surprisingly spry. Another reason for John to be in constant awe of his flatmate.

He came to a halt behind Sherlock, who was standing outside a furniture shop.

“Are we here? This where we’re going?” Silence. Sherlock’s breath fogged up the glass door as he pressed his forehead to it, peering inside. John rubbed his hands to warm them up. “If we’re going in here, I would love to g—“

“Just follow my lead, and don’t speak.” Sherlock didn’t turn around, but he could tell John was ready; on high alert. There was an unspoken trust between them. Sherlock pushed the door cautiously, somewhere inside bells rung to bring attention to their entry.

A plump man turned around to greet them. “Ah hah! Mr Hol-mes!” he shouted, with a thick slurred accent. “I wondered when you would be stopping by! Come, come!” He waved to the back of the shop, and Sherlock walked forward. John still wasn’t sure what was going on (a case? A favour?) The shop was dark and gloomy, a sharp contrast to the jovial shopkeeper. The three men move to the back of the shop, then through to a small dank storeroom.

“Take your pick! Try them out, find which one suits! Call me when you are done!” John looked puzzled. The happy man noticed, and added, “Your friend, he helped me out last month. Let us just say, the drugs bust was… ah hah… unfruitful.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, well, next time try not to conduct a fruit smuggling ring in your place of work.” The manager left with a laugh, and closed the door behind him, leaving the room silent and cut off from the world.

John flicked the light switch on, illuminating the gloom as a dull glow spread out; emanating from a single naked lightbulb in the centre of the room – not quite bright enough to reach the room’s corners but full enough to outline a room of….

…Chairs?

“Sherlock, what the hell is going on?” John’s voice was loud and Sherlock had to stifle a snicker. “Be careful, John. There are some… less than savoury characters around here, and you wouldn’t want them to pay you any unnecessary attention, now.”

John lowered his voice a little, but there still remained a hint of confusion, “so, why are we here? London’s shady furniture stores owing you a favour?”  
Sherlock’s eyes scanned the rows upon rows of chairs, cataloguing and processing each fabric, texture, mechanism and size. After a few moments of silence, he spoke.

“Due to a rather, how shall we say, ‘exotic’ incident last month, Alfonso out there is in my debt, and wishes to repay us in… recliners.” John scoffed. This is what his life had become, living with the ridiculous on a daily basis.

“So, what, we just get to take one?” John was warming up to the idea. Baker St was always being destroyed in one of Sherlock’s experiments, it couldn’t hurt to have a nice new piece of furniture.

Sherlock smirked, “Pick your poison.” That, right there, Sherlock’s morbid sense of humour was something John was still getting used to. But he shrugged it off, and began to peruse the rows of armchairs, deckchairs, barstools; all unseen by the general public, not out on show yet.

He stopped next to a long, wide, almost bed-like chair. It looked like it was waiting for the sun to come out, provide somewhere for relaxation and to aid in getting a tan. John sat down, then tried to lie back. Not realising how far back the headrest was, he wearily lowered his head the rest of the way – panicking as he sank further and further back.

He closed his eyes, picturing the sun beating down on him; the warm breeze, the smell of chemical explosions, the – no. His eyes opened abruptly and Sherlock was lying next to him, the smell of nicotine vaporising in the air around him. John umped slightly, startled by the invasion of his personal space. But then, that was Sherlock, right? Total lack of boundaries?

“It is very impractical and hardly suitable for special awareness and not to mention the dreadful shade of magnolia.”

John sat up, quickly, losing his balance and almost rolling off the lounger. Sherlock grabbed him just in time – his rough, cold, nimble hands gripping tightly on John’s shoulders. John’s heartbeat quickened a little. Adrenaline, of course. But from something so little as an almost-tumble?

John’s eyes glazed over, deep in thought before he snapped out if it as Sherlock stood up. His long dark trench coat billowed behind him, curling itself around like a shadow. Sherlock’s features were bathed in a mischievous light, the lightbulb practically holding on for dear life.

“No, this one is both impractical and not worth the price of my services. Choose again.” John stood upright; unsure why he was hunched up and tense. Sherlock smirked. “A whole room of chairs, John, and you pick badly. I never took you for the Goldilocks type.”

John laughed, “Yeah, I guess that one was practically horizontal. If I wanted to lie down, I should’ve tried out daddy bear’s bed.” John chuckled at the thought, but stopped abruptly. That sort of childish humour didn’t feel quite right at this moment, somehow.

John had been parading around the room, looking at each of the chairs yet not focussing on any.

He stopped in front of a bright orange spherical one, and pointed; “how about that? A good book and a hot drink, I reckon I could sit in that for hours.” It was practically globe-like, with a hollowed out centre which was very expertly padded.

Sherlock walked briskly towards it, with unnecessary purpose. His eyes darted back and forth, making some sort of calculation about god only knew what – probably the monetary value, weighing it up against the cost of services – before he clambered inside it. The dusty room was quiet, but a dull drone of traffic and voices could be heard nearby. John recognised one of the quiet voices, but didn’t process it until it had stopped speaking. Sherlock had whispered something, and John had been too distracted to hear what it was that he had said.

“Sorry, what?” John whispered, leaning in closer. Sherlock grabbed the lapels of John’s coat and pulled him forward, managing to catch John off guard and pulling him down on top of him.

“I said; this one is deceptively roomy, spacious enough for two fully grown males to fit inside.” Sherlock slid his hands around John’s neck and pulled his head inside the chair. He slid his hands down further, letting them rest against John’s lower back. John struggled against them, trying to move away. His face was now pressed up against Sherlock’s chest but he managed to shift slightly in the tight confinements, tilting his head up so that his chin was rested on Sherlock’s shoulder. John’s feet were still, for the most part, planted firmly on the ground, but he knew Sherlock’s boundaries were more liberal than most other people – but surely this was odd? Then again…

John’s train of thought halted, the silence surrounding him was stifling. Usually he couldn’t get a word in edgeways, but at the moment everything was quiet. He could hear his heart pulsing, its pace quickening as John gathered his words and prepared to speak; “I –!”

“Although originally appearing stylish and welcoming, your current rigid body position would indicate you feel this to be an unsuitable chair for relaxation.” Sherlock’s grin turned into a full-blown shit-eating grin, as he whispered, “Try again, Goldilocks.”

Sherlock’s grip relaxed, and John felt instantly relieved. He stumbled backwards out of the cramped space of the awkward, ball-shaped chair.  
Then, for the briefest of moments, John saw a twitch. Factoring in the terrible range of the single lightbulb, and the shadow created by the overhang of the spherical chair, John wasn’t sure he had seen what he thought he might’ve.

There was a glint in Sherlock’s eyes, menacing and devious, with a slow but controlled lick of his lips.

John stifled a scoff, his breath caught in his throat. John turned a full 180 degrees and drew his attention back to some stacked up chairs along the walls. Some of them were upturned, some balanced precariously on others that were not designed to fit together neatly. He cleared his throat, licked his lips, hummed.  
John scanned the closest furniture and spotted a flash of blue. Dark – navy perhaps – but looked sturdy enough. He slid it out from where it was packed tightly in between a dining set and disturbed a thin layer of dust. It tickled his throat. John sank down into the plush recliner, feeling the material shift around him. He let out a relaxed sigh, closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment. It was like sinking into a perfect bath, and, though the exhale lasted only a short time, it was still long enough to mask the rustle as Sherlock climbed out of his chair and slinked across the room towards John.

John’s eyes flickered open, and he sank further back into the recliner. Sherlock was staring, wide-eyed, straight at John. His eyes were boring a hole in John’s skull, and the uncomfortable silence was almost tangible. John tried to say something to try and make himself more at ease, but all he managed to utter was; “ah ha, you, uh, huh….”

Sherlock breathed out through his nose, audibly. His nostrils flared, which John picked up on in the stillness of the room. Sherlock stood up and John began to relax, albeit prematurely. As his legs became less tense, John closed his eyes. In a split second, Sherlock had climbed up onto John’s lap. Sherlock’s knees slotted perfectly into the corners of the recliner, in the recesses left on either side of John’s slim waist. He was straddling John.

The detective’s long coat spread out behind him, draping over the armrests, over John’s shins, sealing him in the recliner.

It took a moment before John’s senses were co-operative, and he heard Sherlock lower his voice and say; “What do you think of this one, then, hmm? Too soft?”  
Sherlock shifted his weight from one knee to the other. “Too… Hard?” Even by the dim, single bulb, John could see the glint from the sparkling teeth at one corner of Sherlock’s mouth; his lip twisted into a sneer.

“How about we… Break it in?”

John blinked slowly, taking in that last request. Was he really asking? Well, who was he to say no?

John moved his hands from their positions on either arm rest, and slid them up the lateral side of Sherlock’s thighs, gripping tight and pulling on the fabric. He glanced up and made eye-contact with Sherlock; eyes shining in the dim light.

Before he could think to regret it, John swiftly moved one hand up to Sherlock’s zipper and yanked it down. The force registered briefly as shock on Sherlock’s face, and then John was sliding down the recliner and his knees bent back, resting on the ground. John’s face was now around crotch-height.

“Like this?” John breathed out heavily, nuzzling his button nose into the crevice that was Sherlock’s unzipped slacks. John could feel his face heating up, but only partially from his own situation – the other heat source was quietly snuggled deeper inside those trousers.

Sherlock let out a garbled cough; John replied; “well, this is a turn-up, isn’t it?” If the detective thought he was the only one who could take control of a situation then he had certainly made a mistake.

He hadn’t considered John H Watson.

 

*********

 

The dust on the floor around the rest of the shop had now settled. The only outside noises were the occasional yell in some Eastern European language that John neither knew nor currently cared about, and his little nips and whines were rapidly increasing in volume so much so that he almost couldn’t hear the curses from the other room anymore, though he was still well aware of their existence.

John pulled Sherlock’s cock out with his mouth, breathing in Sherlock’s musky scent. He only dreamed of smelling such a scent, and couldn’t quite believe that he was currently surrounding it with his mouth.

His tongue darted out inch by inch, licking all along. Milking it for all its worth. Unravelling the detective above him, John was on cloud nine. He ran his tongue down the underside of Sherlock’s swollen dick, his breath tickling Sherlock at the same time causing the man above him to shudder. Knees shaking, Sherlock gripped the armrests tighter, neck arched inwards and panting above John’s head.

“S-stop, John! I can’t--” Sherlock gasped, and ground his teeth together. John came up for air, and slithered back up the armchair, neatly settling himself back between Sherlock’s bony knees. He reached into Sherlock’s inner coat pocket, and pulled out one of the man’s beloved leather gloves. John gripped Sherlock’s face with his left hand, forcing the detective’s mouth open – and shoved the glove in.

“I realise you like to show off, but no offence, I don’t fancy doing this in front of other people,” John laughed, a little uncomfortably, “So we’re just going to shut you up for a while.”

Sherlock’s eyes were beginning to water, mostly from the strain emanating from his nether region, but also slightly because of the deep bite-marks he was sure he would be leaving in his glove. He was starting to sweat slightly underneath the weight of his Belstaff.

John pulled out his dick, and thumbed the head. He slid his arms round Sherlock’s waist, on the inside of his coat, and patted Sherlock’s backside; indicating for the man to sit down in his lap. Judging that he probably didn’t have enough time to go all the way before somebody came to check up on them, John decided his course of action. He gripped Sherlock’s firm ass in one hand, and both cocks in the other. Sherlock was seated right flush against his crotch, so it wasn’t too much of a stretch, but the girth of them both was a bit more of a challenge for John’s small hand.

He started to stroke, up and down, twisting his wrist with some force. Sherlock started panting more, dropping the glove. He laid his forehead on John’s shoulder, heaving in time with the strokes that were now reaching a faster pace. The rhythm started to falter as Jon could feel himself reaching climax, and then suddenly he squeezed hard. Sherlock had nuzzled himself past John’s shirt collar and nipped his clavicle, causing John to release all over Sherlock’s dark mauve shirt, splashing some on the fabric of the armchair. Sherlock rested his cheek against John’s, and John sped up his pumping. The feeling of skin on skin was electric, and John could see Sherlock’s heaving chest shaking from the physical exertion. He could feel Sherlock getting closer, so he slipped his hand down the back of Sherlock’s loose trousers. Being no longer fastened by the zipper at the front, they were no obstacle for John who glided his hand down the cleft between Sherlock’s asscheeks, and prodded his hole.

Sherlock bucked forward in surprise, the panic hitting him in the sacrum, rocking into John’s fist and away from the probing finger behind him. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and Sherlock climaxed on John’s fist and trousers.

 

*********

 

It took a couple of days before they managed to get the chair moved into Baker St. The move was almost stress free – it took a bit of convincing Alfonso that the small stains on the chair were really no bother and it was absolutely the chair they wanted. They could have it professionally cleaned if they wanted, they reassured him, but neither of them really wanted to.

When it was finally pushed into the corner of the living room, John stood in front of it and sighed. All that trouble over a chair… He didn’t notice Sherlock slink into the room behind him.

“So… Do you think it’s already broken in enough, or shall we do it again..?”

**Author's Note:**

> lmao I'm so sorry but I'm hoping the more practise I get writing fics the better they'll get eventually
> 
> Started this one over two years ago, too scared to edit most of the start of it so I'm so sorry for any horrendous word choice or metaphors...


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